Charger

“Hello? Hey, Matt, what’s up, bruh? Haven’t talked to you in a while. What are you up to? How’s Lake Cumberland? Me? I’m playing an old Zelda game I found in the garage. What did you do this weekend?
Uh-huh? Hmmm. Oh? Oh, really?
Me? Oh, nothing. No, really. Nothing. Okay, well, there was something. Well. I mean, its sort of a long story.
Dammit. Let me pause this. Okay. It was Saturday.
The phone rings. I pick it up. You would not believe who it is, bruh. It’s totally Dana fucking Silverman from high school. The one with the Dodge Charger? We did it in the back seat in the parking lot of a football game once. I mean, we both hated school spirit. And football was the epitome of our abhorrence. All that flirting, all that innocent joking about sex and me cheating on my girlfriend and her cheating on her boyfriend all culminated in about a halftime worth of uncomfortable yet fucking awesome backseat lovemaking.
Then we graduated. She moved to Boston. I stayed in Atlanta. That was two years ago. We haven’t spoken since except once or twice in an internet chat room. I haven’t thought about her in what seems like forever.
So then she calls and say she’s back in town, and she wants to hook up for the weekend, bruh. I know, man, it’s fucked up! I was thinking, did she want to just catch up on old times, or did she want to start something serious, or a weekend fling? Did she want to pick up things in the backseat where they left off? Did she still have the Dodge Charger? I never told you this, but we did it at graduation, too. Yeah. Back behind the bleachers. It was a little more comfortable. Little humid, but otherwise awesome. Aw, man, you don’t even know. She did… things to me back there.
A-a-anyway. She calls me, okay? I’m home, after all, I’m always home. Says she needs me to help her out with something. Says it’ll be worth my while, so you know what I’m thinking. Well, she says that she’s staying with her grandparents, since, you know… her parents are sort of… Well, she’s got this problem. No, her grandparents don’t live in Boston, they live here in Atlanta. Stay with me on this, now.
She says that she sort of has been telling her grandparents that she’s been seeing a nice boy. They’ve been disappointed in the trash that she brings home usually. Yeah, punk rockers and goth vampires and ICP juggalos. People that feel the need to keep their precious wallets on a chain. The sort of wallets with either the Anarchy ‘A’ or the ‘Mushroomhead’ logo stitched on the front. Sure, she might go for a metal-head or two, I don’t know. She always was very… experimental. Yeah, short red hair. Wait. Fucking listen to the story, okay!?
So she says that if I come up to the far fucking other side of town, and pretend to be her good boyfriend, she’ll take me on the time of my life for the weekend. And you know how I’ve been dying to get out of this house. Man, it has been killing me.
She gives me these directions, which take me through the bad part of town, back into the ritzy part of town, then over that old bridge, then into the suburbs. Fucks with my head a little. And I’m driving, I’m driving, okay. I call her about halfway when I get lost, she navigates me the rest of the way there.
She had me dress up all nice, said I should slick my hair back like some nineteen-fifties nerd. Whatever. I sort of like this. It’s like giving these old people some hope in their granddaughter. Man, if they only knew, right?
Added touch. I buy some flowers along the way. What the hell, right, I figure if she’s told her grandparents that we’re serious I’d better have flowers. And if she hasn’t, hell, it’s a good enough time as any for she and her fictitious boyfriend to take it to the next level. I forego on chocolates, but I fill up on gas before I get there. Oh, she needed to know how much money I had. Not because she was interested, but her grandfather was always the sort of guy who believed a man should pay his and his date’s way. Dana herself is into going Dutch.
I had about seven dollars. She said to stop at a bank machine on the way, which I did. She said that it didn’t matter to her how much money I had, but it was all show for her grandparents. It’s so cool, man, she calls them Poppy and Nana.
Yeah, I know. For show. Well, at this point she doesn’t know I have the Jag yet. I don’t exactly brag about it. Oh, wait for that part of the story.
I’m going through that industrial area when I realize that I’m actually really close. I’m on the cell phone with her and she’s telling me directions and stuff that I’ve already done, like I’m one step ahead of her or something. I vaguely remember being at her house once or twice, but not well enough to make the trip totally unassisted.
What? Pierced? Yeah. Yeah, it was. Shut up.
So I get to the house. This ranch style home with the fifties sort of shit-brown colored wood paneling. Big bay windows. All mosaic-like and wind chimes with ceramic kittens in the window.
I go up to the door, and before I can even knock, Dana opens up the door. Get this. Same blue eyes, but she dyed her short red hair jet black. How hot is that? Straight down, sort of curls at the end. Get what she’s wearing; white dress shirt, Catholic schoolgirl style, black leather skirt that‘s basically just second skin around her ass its so tight, because we’re going to a club. Knee-high boots. Not too much makeup but just a little lipstick and eye shadow, she knows I’m not into a lot of makeup. And this sexy little neckerchief. Neckerchief. Dude, a neckerchief. Sure, those can be sexy. Oh, man, you just had to be there. I can see why now her grandparents are so worried about her when she dresses like that. She’s just attracting horn dogs like flies to honey. I think she has a morbid fascination with turning them down. Oh, yeah, she’s got a hairband. I don’t know, I guess its sexy. Makes her look like she goes to a Catholic school. Nuns and shit.
Me? I’m wearing a sweater vest and khaki pants. Don’t worry, I’ve got a change of clothes in the car. I didn’t think she’d mind me changing in front of her considering… out history. My hair’s slicked back. I just add sunglasses to that and I’m still good to go.
She looks around with those innocent baby blues, big black youthful pupils so that it barely looks like she has irises, and she sees the green Jag. She smiles real wide. She’s got a great smile. Big, pouty lips, but a nice wide smile at the same time. Not like Angelina Jolie. Not at all.
She smiles and says she didn’t know I was into classic cars. I know. ‘Into classic cars.’ I could have said that but it would have been rude. Dude, her grandfather was right there watching TV in the next room.
She says she was thinking of taking her car but now she wants to go in mine. I’m cool with that. So she brings me in and sits me down, says she has a little more to do to get ready, which it doesn’t look like. I think this is her nice way of getting me to meet her grandfather. I’m all like, ‘Who am I supposed to be?’ and she just says, ‘Be yourself.’
So I guess that means I’m me. Ben Pearson. Okay. Grandfather mutes his television. Oh, and get this, the grandma, Nana, she’s actually baking fresh cookies for us. With the sweater vest and the khakis, I’m in. The fact that I took the time to make a good first impression seems to make a good first impression. I guess all the other losers she brought home wore jeans and a t-shirt or big spiked hair. Neon purple or some shit. I felt like I should have had Buddy Holly glasses to complete the package. I’m not supposed to curse in front of them. This includes things like ‘Swell!’ and ‘So’s your old man!’ Yeah. And I’m supposed to be me.
What? Dude, of course I didn’t mention that I popped their granddaughter’s fucking cherry in the back seat of the car they bought for her. Dude, what are you, retarded?
We did talk a little about football, though. Sports. Old movies. My useless John Wayne trivia came in real helpful. Elvis Presley. That sort of stuff. They asked what I did. I told them the truth, that I was making websites, made pretty good money at it. He asks how much money, his wife kind of scolds him for it. I’m all like, ‘no I don’t mind.’ I make a pretty penny. What? Oh, for Pete’s sake, man. I don’t have to tell you.
Okay, fine. I charge by billable hours and they repay me for whatever I need to buy software-wise, which isn’t much because my system’s already loaded. About twenty bucks an hour and I get to work out of the home. Commissioned work. Not bad. But I fucking digress.
Huh? Dude, they’re peanut butter macadamia nut cookies now will you shut up and let me tell you the damn story!!
Damn. Okay. So about this time, the Q and A is over, and Dana comes down the wood panel stairs looking somehow more hot than she did before. I don’t know how. She just did.
Her grandma had put the flowers in some water for her. She kissed them on the cheeks and we went out. We took the Jag. We took about fifteen minutes to catch up on two years of shit we’ve missed in each other’s lives, then she starts to suck on my neck while we’re driving.
I park for a while so we can make out. I change right there. We didn’t go too far, though, because I’m a gentleman now, apparently, and her grandparents wanted her back by midnight. That’s when the Jag turns into a pumpkin, incidentally.
We get to the club. Downtown past Five Points? You know the one we went to with those drunk chicks? I forget what its called, too, and I was just fucking there. Whatever. The point is that we get in, which is a miracle, and there’s some sort of glow-in-the-dark rave going on, which I’m not usually into. Dana loves this sort of shit. She’s got those glow sticks on strings that you can twirl about and try not to hit people. She’s really good at it. They played about every techno song I ever cared to listen to and then about twenty more. I managed to nearly take out my eye with that glow stick. Then, about the time I finally get the hang of it, I find that there’s a sore part of my hand where the string has been rubbing up against it for about a thirty minutes.
What? I don’t know, she had a green and a purple one and I had a red one. Who the hell cares? Well get this image in your head, dumbass. (Just so you know, I’m giving you the finger.)
Forget the glow sticks, okay? Because after that she gets a couple drinks in her, and we both get all touchy-feely, and there’s some serious close-contact dancing going on here. I’m not a very good dancer, and we’re about the only two white people in the club, but who cares, right? I mean, just move around, have fun and hope nobody notices.
It gets really hot in there. More ways than one. Huh? Well, I may have had a few. Yeah, yeah, shame on me. Well, I didn’t end up driving anyways because she wants to go to a hotel. There’s that fancy one just down the street. You know, looks like it was molded from pure gold. We were both a little buzzed, but it was totally consensual and the hotel took my credit card. I was staring at one of those gold rosettes for about ten minutes while they scanned my card through.
So we have no luggage and this is a fancy hotel. I say that the luggage is in my Jag down the street at the club. I’ll send someone for it later. In the meantime we’re a little preoccupied. Dana chimes in that its our honeymoon and we decided to spend it in beautiful Atlanta. The desk man congratulates us on our tourism decisions and, get this, upgrades the room for free to the honeymoon suite. That’s like two-hundred dollars. No shit.
But a bed is a bed. We were already jumping all over each other before we even reached our floor. Pretty funny thing is that there was this family of four on the elevator with us. Dana didn’t even seem to care. If anything she was getting off on being watched. Damned exhibitionist.
So we go to the room, down the hall, use the little card. No entry. I scan it again. Red light, buzz, no entry. Now, I’m freaking out because any more of this and one or both of us is going to drop out of this amorous mood. I scan it. Green. Ding. We’re in.
I pick her up, holding her ass, and carry her over to the bed. She’s licking the roof of my mouth. I slam her hard down on the bed, because I know she likes it sort of rough like that, and I’m landing down on her a second later. She’s got her tongue so far down my throat I think my tonsils can feel it, meanwhile she’s unzipping my pants. I’ve got one hand down the back of her panties, kind of playing with her asshole a little to keep her going, and with the other hand unclasping her bra in the front. At this point, shoes, headband, neckerchief, leather skirt, it’s all on the floor.
And keep in mind that I’m supposed to be a good, wholesome John Wayne sort of guy that’s going to have her back by midnight tonight.
That’s when something strange happened. Two things actually. The first was perhaps brought on by our history. Or perhaps because we were stinking drunk. Or perhaps because of the whole situation with the grandparents and the deception and the sweater vest. Oh, yeah, there was a pink dress shirt under the sweater vest. Can’t leave that out. It was pretty funny.
Anyways, the first thing that happened was that we both simultaneously stopped our groping and just looked at each other in the eyes. We started cracking up laughing. We realized just how fucking ridiculous all of it was, all the kissing and the screwing and the deception, and we laughed our fucking asses off.
Then we sort of settled down. The laughing sort of petered off. What? Oh, ha-fucking-ha. Okay, it trailed off. Good? Good. Anyways, there’s this awkward silence that comes after you’ve just shared a really good joke and don’t have anything to follow up with. We’re staring in each others’ eyes when the second strange thing happened.
I swear to God, Matt, we fucking fell in love with each other right there. How fucking funny is that? I’m half-naked and stiff lying on top of a girl who’s half-naked and wet, and that’s when we fall in love. After we’ve already gotten the hotel room. After we’ve done it a few times a couple years ago.
Gently, like a gentleman, I move in and kiss her. Soft. Sweet. Very little tongue. Drastically different that before. Then we took off each others’ clothes and had sex.
It wasn’t groping. It wasn’t rough. It wasn’t experimental. It wasn’t fucking. It was love-making.
Love, man. We fell in love.
The next morning, she wakes up and asks me if I would love her more if her tummy was flatter. I look at her, and in all seriousness I say;
“Dana. I would not love you more because you had a flat tummy. I would not love you more because you gained eighty pounds. But if you lost or gained weight tomorrow, or in a week, or a year… if your breasts started to sag or if they got bigger or if you got shorter or lost your sex drive or whatever… I would love you more. Not because of those things, but because tomorrow, fat or thin, I will love you more than I do today. And the day after that I will love you more than that. I will love you one-hundred percent of a pie chart and the pie itself will just keep getting bigger. Like in video games when you have three hearts of health to fill, then it becomes four and five and six in later levels.
‘If your hair turns white or you get laugh lines or if you don’t age a day in the next sixty years, I’ll love you more and more because its all part of who you are. I know it sounds corny but its what I feel. It’s what you need to know that I feel.’
She smiled. She locked her arms around my neck and I locked mine around her waist, and we locked our lips together. She said, “You hopeless patronizing romantic.” I didn’t even get her home until noon of that day. Hotel check-out time is the only reason we left that early.
And that, Matt, is how somebody can fall in love. That is what I did this weekend.”

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